


I won't wake before you go

by failbender



Category: IT (2017), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Introspection, M/M, MAJOR SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER TWO, Missing Scene, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, sorry this one focuses a lot on just these two although the other Losers are present
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/failbender/pseuds/failbender
Summary: Eddie had not only forgotten his friends, but he had forgotten how brave he truly was, and instead let his fear define who he would be. He forgot his courage and allowed other people to define him, too, let other people determine how he lived his life. And it was safe, staying in those lines, running the course others set for him for nearly thirty years.In a way, throwing that spear had been a declaration. The decision to stop running away. He is so sick of doing it so much, for so long, and he is here to fight tooth and nail to live the way he wants to. With re-discovered valor. With the stubborn force of will he always had. Live the life he could have, at last.He knows he may not actually get that chance any longer, but nevertheless he does not regret throwing that spear.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	I won't wake before you go

**Author's Note:**

> I just... Eddie deserves better than "I fucked your mom".
> 
> title is from "BB's Theme", Ludvig Forssell's beautifully composed piece from Death Stranding, with Jenny Plant's haunting vocals. I actually highly recommend you listen to it, if you have not already, because I have commandeered it as a Reddie song. and can't stop listening to it. please please please [listen to it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVavFG7xJ88) or check out [the lyrics](https://twitter.com/Ludvig_Forssell/status/1202898350103654400?s=20) or I guess you really don't have to or maybe you won't see what I see but... idk it makes me cry.
> 
> originally was going to title it after Bastille's "Another Place", which I also label as Reddie. you heard it here first, folks.
> 
> anyway, this is sadly un-beta'd, but I did my best. any errors, please feel free to let me know. I will edit anything egregious if I come across it while re-reading it again.
> 
> on with the show!

He would do it again in a heart beat.

Seeing Richie suspended in the air, eyes blank and dead; that was much more terrifying than the leper had been. Scarier than the clown ever was. Clown spider, or whatever the fuck form It has taken to terrorize them with. Eddie can still hear Its spiked appendages scraping against the mouth of the cavern. He can feel them in the vibrations of the wall where he sits, leaning against it.

Can still sort of feel one of the claws ripping through his body, like an aftershock. As though the feeling were an angry spirit, intent to haunt him forever. If by some miracle Eddie manages to survive until they can get him out of here, he is sure he will always suffer this ghost tearing at his insides. Impaled, thrown, fallen. He will never stop feeling any of this.

But Eddie would do it again, and again, and again, if it meant saving Richie from the deadlights.

Richie, who is still pressing his jacket against the wound splitting down the middle of Eddie’s chest to try and curb the blood flow. Richie, who has not left Eddie’s side while their other friends risk their own lives, crawling through the caverns in an attempt to take the clown by surprise. Richie, who Eddie only truly remembered when their eyes met at the Jade – which is so fucking ridiculous, really, because how could he forget _Richie_ , out of everyone? Seeing him was like finding a missing item, a lost set of keys, finding that needle in the haystack.

It had been a relief similar to that of falling into his warm, comfortable bed, finally able to rest after a long, long day. It felt like – like he was finally _home_ , in a way that he had never felt before.

The notion terrified him, a little. Still does. Eddie had not only forgotten his friends, but he had forgotten how brave he truly was, and instead let his fear define who he would be. He forgot his courage and allowed other people to define him, too, let other people determine how he lived his life. And it was safe, staying in those lines, running the course others set for him for nearly thirty years.

Seeing Richie at the Jade was a shock to his carefully set system – a glimpse into a life he may have lived. At the time, he could not tell if he wanted to run as far away from it as he could or chase it until he could grab it by its shirttails, tug it close to him, hang on tight. In a way, throwing that spear had been a declaration. The decision to stop running away. He is so _sick_ of running away after doing it so much, for so long, and he is here to fight tooth and nail to live the way _he_ wants to. With re-discovered valor. With the stubborn force of will he always had. Live the life he could have, at last.

He knows he may not actually get that chance any longer, but nevertheless he does not regret throwing that spear.

In front of him, Richie’s free hand darts up to adjust his glasses minutely, watching as the clown noisily claws above them. The gesture is such a familiar sight that Eddie cannot help but smile. Studying Richie’s face had always been an old hobby of his, and it is striking just how little has changed.

After all these years, Eddie retains the catalogue of his friend’s expressions, the grit of his teeth, the furrow of his brow. The crinkle of his eyes. He remembers, somewhat embarrassingly, that he had maintained a lot of focus on Richie’s mouth. How it formed words. How it twisted into vicious grins. How he chewed his bottom lip rose red. Probably Eddie’s attention was due to the fact that Richie was always running the damn thing. Saying so many inappropriate, hilarious things.

Much has changed, however, and not just the new lines on his face, the stubble on his jaw. There were other things Eddie had noticed before, at the Jade and in the townhouse. Bizarre things that did not line up with his catalogue. Things that were too different. Richie seemed subdued in a way Eddie had never seen. Sure as shit he still has that infuriating trash mouth of his, but he would also hunch his shoulders, tuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Bow his head. It looked like he had been making every effort to become small, to blend into the background.

As though he was trying to hide, but from what, Eddie still has no idea.

This new behavior annoys him so much more than any of Richie’s infantile jokes. And for that matter, it drives Eddie up the wall knowing that he doesn’t even write his own material. Wrapping his head around the idea of a Richie who lets someone else speak for him is impossible. A Richie who is reluctant to say every single damn thing that comes to mind, a Richie who censors himself in any way, like he has some deep, dangerous secret that he fears being exposed.

Eddie swallows, grimacing at the taste and feel of blood in his throat, and finds himself incapable of asking what that secret might be. Tendrils of fear clutching his heart, silencing him as time goes on.

“How you holding up, sport?” Richie asks in a stupid voice, that same free hand finding Eddie’s knee and patting it. As though Eddie had a minor scrape from a minor incident, hurt himself at the gym or something, instead of having been impaled by a clown-spider. His tone, whatever absurd impression he is making, comes off as completely patronizing – and Richie must have intended it as such, evident by the devilish smirk he wears on his face.

So many little things have stayed the same. That faux smile, the one that doesn’t meet those big eyes of his, the one that says he is grinning and bearing pain – Eddie knows it very well, too.

“Peachy,” he replies, humoring Richie in perfect monotone regardless. He receives a wink for his efforts. Richie playfully shakes his knee a little, but does not remove his hand. Maybe. It is hard to tell. Eddie thinks he might be losing feeling in his legs. That cannot be a good sign. But fuck if he wants to handle what that means right now, so he does his best to ignore it. 

He looks back up to the entrance of the tunnel the rest of them had snuck through. Their shadows have long since retreated, and Eddie expects to hear them fighting again soon. He returns his gaze to Richie. “You think it’ll work?”

“You say that like we’ve never beaten an otherworldly entity within an inch of Its life before.”

“I remember It puking on me,” Eddie grimaces. “I think I kicked It in the head after.”

“Sure did. It was fucking incredible. I gotta detract a few points for the black ooze puke but I guess you still looked pretty cool.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe before we get you out of here, you can kick It one last time for good luck.”

And shit, Richie really believes it. The fake smile is gone, replaced with a real one, a real shit-eating grin, like the two of them are having a normal conversation. Like they will just keep talking the night away like they always used to. Like one of them isn’t getting colder as the seconds drag by. Eddie shivers suddenly, tilting his head back onto the cavern wall behind him with an exhale of pain.

The smile falters. “You cold?”

“Yeah, a little,” Eddie replies, closing his eyes against that crestfallen face.

“Well, I’d offer you my jacket, but your chest is using it.”

Eddie huffs out a small laugh. It hurts like absolute hell. “Sorry about that, by the way. Promise me you’ll throw this thing out.”

“I dunno, I think the blood’ll make me look really badass. I can tell everyone I fought a shark.”

“With your jacket on?”

“It was an aggressive shark, followed me right to the parking lot. 3pm, by the flag pole, real crazy stuff.”

Eddie would roll his eyes if they were not already closed. What an idiot. How could he have forgotten him? 

“Please throw it out. It’s gonna be so fucking gross after all this.”

He hears Richie _tut tut_ like an old woman in response, but he does not hear any promises regarding the jacket. He really hopes Richie throws it away. Getting it covered in Eddie’s blood is already bad enough, let alone it being saturated in whatever sewage and garbage and Pennywise-related filth there is around them. Absolutely disgusting. The amount of diseases eager to spread down here nauseate him. Richie would be better off leaving it down here with the rest of the refuse.

The clown is looking elsewhere, has finally stopped trying to claw Its way into the cavern they are hiding in. With any luck that means the rest of the Losers are trying out Eddie’s plan. Fuck, he really hopes it works. The failure of Mike’s ritual had devastated all of them – and his friends had barely survived Its counterattack directly after. Beverly was covered in _blood_ for fuck’s sake. They can’t fail this time. They will not get another chance.

Eddie wants nothing more than to still be around to see It die. If nothing else, he wants to hear, _hear_ that creature plead and beg for Its miserable life, and he wants to hear the Losers deny It. He wants to hear Mike sigh with relief, his duty done, the monster defeated. He wants to hear Bev and Ben be grossly in love with each other. He wants to hear Bill avenge his brother for a second time, avenge Stanley. He wants to hear more of Richie’s stupid jokes.

He wants. He wants so much more.

“Still with me, Eds?”

With some difficulty, Eddie forces his eyes open. He sees Richie gaping at him, his hand still resting on Eddie’s leg. He can no longer feel it at all; his legs may as well not even be there. He only knows Richie is still holding him because he can see it through half-lidded eyes. His fingertips twitch and the dirt beneath them feels miles away. He feels so tired; all he wants to do is close his eyes again. He could fall asleep like this, he thinks, just drift away and – oh. _No._

God, fuck, no. _No!_ He can’t – he can’t, not down here, not like _this_. Not when he has so much to fucking do now, so much to change. Not when he finally has his friends, his family again. For fuck's sake, Richie is right _here_. There are so many things Eddie wants to talk to him about. He can’t die. Not yet. This is — he only just — 

Oh, _fuck_ this.

Eddie is _not_ dying in the depths of a disgusting fucking sewer. He is _not_ letting that clown have any more victories. With all the strength and resolve he has left, repressed and buried for twenty-seven years, he digs his numbing fingers into the ground as deeply as he can. Clings onto life with all the stubborn ferocity that courses through his veins anew. Focuses on Richie. _Richie_. He wants to stay with Richie. He _has_ to stay with Richie.

There is so much to tell him.

“I don’t hate it,” he starts, weakly. His throat may as well have barbed wire in it for how much it hurts to actually talk again.

Richie looks at him, eyebrows raised and clearly confused. Surprisingly, he does not speak, instead waiting patiently for Eddie to elaborate. As though they have all the time in the world. Eddie does not. And Richie has no idea. He has no fucking clue. Or he is in deep denial, and Eddie can’t tell which is worse.

He ignores the pain, summons whatever energy he can muster to go on, because this is important. Richie needs to hear this. Eddie needs to _say_ this.

“‘Eds’,” he rasps at last. “I don’t hate ‘Eds.’”

This time, Richie’s face twists away from confusion into something indescribable. Scared? Relieved? Surprised? Reprimanded? Sad? Resigned? Perhaps it is a mix of everything, like Richie’s very being rejects the idea of being defined by any one thing. Typical. 

“It was like… a secret identity, you know?” The words come out sluggish and slow; it is infuriating. He focuses on Richie again. “I could only ever be Eddie to my mom, or at the hospital, or at school.

“But with you, I could be someone else.”

He liked who he had been with Richie. With the other Losers. He wonders what that kid would think of him now, if he would even recognize himself, if he would be disappointed. Of course, he would be. How could he not, after forgetting so much? After Derry took everything from him. Made him forget the people most important to him, the people who let him be himself. Erased the lessons he had learned, the courage that burned bright in his heart.

“I wish I’d stayed Eds,” he admits quietly, tears stinging his eyes. It sounds like a confession. Maybe it is. What a terrible thing to realize, he thinks, while bleeding out in the depths of a sewer. While digging his fingers into the dirt, desperate to hold on. A sad thing to discover, far too late.

While dying.

“You still seem like Eds to me,” Richie tells him after a short while, after eons pass. His voice is so fond, so affectionate. Smiling again; Eddie swears he can feel the warmth radiating from that tender gaze. “One of the first things you did when you saw me again was call me a dickwad. I’d say that’s classic Eds.”

Eddie wishes they were back in the restaurant. That they had not returned to Derry to kill a clown, but to simply reunite. Just to be Losers again. He wishes he had left with Richie that first fucking night.

“When we get out of here,” and Richie sounds so sure of it that Eddie’s heart just about cracks in two, “you’ve really gotta Eds it up all over the place. Let your hair down, go nuts, dude. Fuck your stupid meds. You know you don’t need them! And fuck that gluten free shit. Eat a fucking bagel, Eds. Shit, eat some fast food. Throw out whatever stupid backup inhaler I _guaran-fucking-tee_ you have with you. I’ll buy you another one, just so you can burn that, too. I’ll buy you fifty of ‘em, and we can smash ‘em all fifty different ways. I think you will find I can get pretty creative when it comes to destroying small plastic objects.”

Warm, wonderful promises, none of which Eddie will be able to keep.

“‘Eds it up’,” he repeats, smiling despite everything. The small laugh he lets out ought to hurt, but even the pain radiating from his wound is starting to fade away, leaving only a numb sensation behind. He would be glad if it were not so terrifying. The only sensation he can feel anymore are the tears trickling down his face, blurring his vision. He feels pathetic. He wishes like hell that he weren’t crying, if only so that he could see Richie better.

“I do have a spare.”

“Easiest call of my life,” Richie replies nonchalantly. Without another word, yet with some obvious hesitation, he reaches over to brush at Eddie’s face, gently wiping the tears away from his cheeks. Eddie smiles again, grateful that he is still able to feel the gesture. Grateful it will be one of the last things he can.

Distantly, he hears the other Losers shouting at the clown. With great satisfaction, Eddie watches as Pennywise writhes and stumbles about at every word they shout. _Just a stupid mummy!_ he hears Ben shout. _An old woman_ , Beverly screams, voice laced with hatred as it echoes along the walls of the cavern. He wishes he could join their scathing cacophony. Even Richie is yelling now, though curiously neglects to specify a frightful form, aside from _clown_.

Eddie wonders, not for the first time, what form It had taken, if any, to try and scare _him_. He remembers ages ago, that Richie said he was afraid of clowns, and how much total bull shit it seemed to Eddie. He remembers being shocked none of his other friends ever picked up on it, not even Stanley, who could always read each and every one of them like books.

What had Richie truly been afraid of, back then? What is he afraid of now? What is he trying to hide from, what is his secret? Eddie wants to know everything about this new Richie. He wishes he had more time. He wishes he had not wasted so much of his fucking life.

The other Losers crowd in on Its retreating, shrinking form, and It winds up scrambling over the strange rock formation that they had tried Mike’s ritual on before. It is still fighting back, however, and Eddie watches with horror as a spiked leg narrowly misses Bill’s head. Their disbelief, their belittling is clearly taking its toll on the monster, but they are not strong enough, not with only four of them. The self-called Devourer of Worlds howls back at them, swinging angrily at whoever It can reach.

It is getting back up.

Richie looks to Eddie, panic and indecision plain as day on his face. He needs to help the others, but he clearly does not want to leave Eddie’s side. The others are fighting for their lives, for the ones lost before them, but Richie does not want to go. Eddie doesn’t want him to leave, either, fragile heart crashing in his ribcage at the thought of it, because he does not want to do this alone.

He knows Richie would stay, if Eddie said nothing. Knows Richie would hold onto him for however many precious minutes he has left. He would forsake everything else if it meant they could be together just a little longer.

“Go,” Eddie hears himself say, regardless, because he has to. He has no idea if Richie even hears him around the gravel in his voice, so he tries again. “Go help them.” 

“Eddie.” His name is an argument. Richie never makes things easy for him.

“Rich,” he argues right back. He is proud he is not crying again, grateful that while it hurts to speak, his voice does not waver. This is too important. More than anything, he cannot be the reason they lose anyone else. He will not let terror be the reason Richie hesitates, now that they are so close. He refuses to allow his own fear keep Richie selfishly at his side while his life fades away, because the others need him to save theirs. To save so many more after them, to avenge those lost.

They can beat It, but they need Richie. And Eddie needs to let him go.

Facing Henry Bowers, facing the clown, facing his mother – none of it had ever been as damnably petrifying as this moment is. Nothing has been scarier than this decision, than this surrender. He wants to do so much more. He wants things to change, he wants to destroy those fifty inhalers, he wants to Eds it up. But he knows he can’t, and he hates it. It terrifies him and he wants Richie here by his side. He wants to give into his fear. It would be so easy.

But he pushes it down, down, strangling the emotion like he did with the leper, and refuses to let it have him any longer. Fear has defeated him for twenty-seven long years. No more.

He has to let Richie go.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” he lies. And Richie believes.

Richie is all he can see as his vision goes white around the edges. Richie, who shakes his head with frustration, with resolve, and gets up. Richie, who parts from Eddie without having any idea it is for the final time. Richie, who begins to shout at the clown with renewed vigor, because that is where he needs to be. Eddie’s gaze drifts, heavy and tired as he stares at nothing in particular, off in the distance.

The ground feels as though it is giving away beneath him, but he has no energy left to care. He is no longer scared. He listens as hard as he can to his friends, assured beyond a doubt of their eventual triumph. Because they _will_ beat It. They will be okay. He is sure of it, wholeheartedly, even as their voices finally fade away. 

He believes in his friends, even as everything – sight, sound, feeling – becomes distant and muffled, as though Eddie were being submerged under water. The deep dark of an endless sea. And maybe he is.

Given the choice, he knows that he would do it again. Take up that spear to kill a monster. Anything to save his friends.

He would do it again.

  


  


  


___________________________________

_though I can’t stay with you  
oh, I won’t stray away from the truth  
and I remember your warmth  
(I still remember)  
and I’m still learning to love anew _

___________________________________


End file.
